Inside 221b
by ThisBookBelongsTo
Summary: Random peeks into the lives of Sherlock and John.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Do I ****_look_**** like Stephen Moffat? No? How about Mark Gatiss? I didn't think so...**

"Sherlock?"

"John."

"Sherlock, what do you call this?"

"...It's a table. Pine, scorch marks indicative of a recent encounter with a Bunsen burner."

"No, it _used _to be a table - our kitchen table. What have you done to it this time?"

"..."

"...The books hold it approximately level anyway. You'll still be able to use it."

"**That** is not the point! And don't try and make out like I'm the only one who uses it, either."

"I don't eat."

"No, you just destroy harmless pieces of furniture!"

"It was hardly _harmless_. I detected no less than sixteen different potentially toxic materials absorbed in the surface of the wood."

"Oh, you did, did you? And where, exactly, do you think _they came from_?"

"Three weeks ago, the woman's cat, it was poison..."

"Rhetorical question, Sherlock! Just... pass me the phone, will you?"

"What do you need the phone for?"

"Because some of us need to **eat**, and I can hardly prepare food on _that_, now can I?"

"Well..."

"_Sher_-lock..."

"You did ask!"

"Not _literally_!"

"...Oh. Well, you should say what you mean."

"What, like you do?"

"John, I am a highly-functioning sociopath. Nobody _expects_ me to be reasonable."

"No, that's true. A reasonable person would offer to order take-away, to make up for the table."

"Actually, the table wouldn't have been damaged in the first place, so..."

"Shut **up**, Sherlock! Make yourself useful and order us Thai food."

"Indian. We had Thai last Tuesday."

"But today _is_ Tues- Fine, whatever. Just do it. I have to go and explain away your mess to Mrs. Hudson."


	2. Too Close For Comfort

**Disclaimer: Only the plot, and all that...**

**Not exactly humour, but I hope you like it.**

The scream of a dying man rips through the tense hush outside the abandoned cotton mill. John recognises the sound, and it sends a chill through him. His answering cry, of utter desolation, is because he knows who the sound belongs to.

"Sherlock..." He can barely bring himself to speak the word, terrified that it might be the last time he does so while his friend is still... He can't even think it; the idea is too awful to comprehend.

Another mournful howl of pain drifts down from a shattered window, and John is running up the stairs before he even know's he's moving. Images of Sherlock, bound, bleeding, alone, crash through his mind. He feels hot tears on his cheeks, and hopes against hope that they aren't true. A door, forced open, and another, and now he's in a room filled with dust-laden machines. The horrible squeak as a chain rubs back and forth over the ceiling beam is his only clue as he sets off running again, toward the noise.

His blood is pounding in his head louder than the noise of the machinery when this factory was in operation. He spots Sherlock and his captor in the same moment, and then the masked figure is on the floor, clutching at its side, and John vaguely registers that she's female. He doesn't care. Sensation returns to his trembling hands, and he sees for the first time the gun he must have shot her with. He doesn't even remember bringing it with him. He sees the woman move, and finishes her off without a second thought. The coldness of it would have horrified him in different circumstances, but...

Sherlock. He tucks away the weapon and turns to where his friend is being held, suspended by a rusting chain. He begins to work at unfastening it, but an effete sigh from Sherlock dissolves his patience and he simply shoots through the weakened metal, gathering the near-unconscious form in his arms before he can hit the floor. Sherlock folds up like a piece of paper, hardly even opening his eyes.

"Sherlock?" John's heart is beating faster than it ever has in his life. "Sherlock!"

The pale head lolls back and fixes the doctor with a watery blue stare. "Five more minutes, John," he wheezes, and John tightens his grip protectively around the pathetic figure. Round, fat droplets mix with the shallow cuts and grazes on Sherlock's face, causing him to wince. It takes John a moment to realise that it isn't Sherlock who is crying, and dabs away his tears as gently as he can manage with a shaking hand.

"Alright," he murmurs in response, going along with Sherlock's delusion. "I'll call you when breakfast is ready." John is quite proud of how steady he manages to keep his voice. The detective hums his approval, turning over in John's arms and nestling his face into the front of his coat. John takes one long look at his friend, thinking how close it had been this time. He casts an eye over some of the bloodied implements around them, but can't bear to examine them too closely. Securing his grip on his friend, John made his way back out toward the police and, more importantly, the ambulance crew just outside.

The look of relief on Lestrade's face perfectly mirrored his own as he met the man's eye from the back of the ambulance. He's okay, he mouthed, before the door was closed and the vehicle pulled away.

**A little random, but I've just finished 'Longing for Yesterday', so I'm still in that angst-y mindset, I'm afraid! Hopefully the happy-go-lucky tone will return soon. Reviews, as always, are more than welcome.**


	3. Pancakes

**If I owned Sherlock, then the series would've turned out very differently, and the BBC would never have shown it... :P**

"John, what is this?"

"It's breakfast, Sherlock. You know, food, eaten in the morning? A custom of normal people all over the world?"

"Sarcasm does not become you. What is this **precisely**?"

"A mixture of flour, eggs..."

"John..."

"Pancakes, Sherlock! They're **pancakes**!"

"I see. Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why, John, are there pancakes?"

"Because I made them."

"You...? Are we out of bread?"

"Umm... no?"

"Then what has caused your sudden preference for pancakes, when you have eaten toast every morning for the past ten months and twenty-four days?"

"You really don't know?"

"Evidently, John, or I would not be standing here enduring such an unnecessarily protracted enquiry."

"Alright then: what is today?"

"Wednesday. I fail to see-"

"No, no! What makes today **different**?"

"..."

"I don't believe this. Maybe I should..."

"John, I would appreciate it if you would explain what is going on."

"Sherlock... It's your **birthday**."

"And?"

"And most people give their friends **gifts** on their birthday."

"...The pancakes... are a gift?"

"**Yes**!"

"For me?"

"Yes."

"Because it is my birthday."

"Yes."

"Because you are..."

"Sherlock, they're going cold. Stop thinking for ten minutes and just enjoy them."

"...Thank you."

"Oh! Well, umm... You're welcome?"

"..."

"..."

"John, when is your birthday?"

"Last month."


End file.
